


the way you fall asleep

by Battle



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Libraries, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Smoking, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:13:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1891737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Battle/pseuds/Battle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>E.V.E. is a librarian at the New York Public Library's 96th St. branch. She doesn't like people, she doesn't like crowds, and she doesn't like the blue eyed stranger that holds the door for her. Well, that last one may be a lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the way you fall asleep

Despite the stigma of a city that never sleeps, there aren’t many people out and about at 2:15am on a Thursday morning in New York City. It’s January, just after the New Year, but not so long after that everyone has recovered from the continuous hangover that comes with the death of an old year and the birth of a new one. Three feet of fresh snow and weeks of grey-brown slush have built up on the sidewalks and streets; the temperature hasn’t risen out of the twenties since the end of November. A street sweeper turns the corner and lazily makes its way across the asphalt, moving what snow it can, and ignoring the rest.

E.V.E watches it pass, the end of her cigarette lighting up her face every time she inhales. She’s not wearing gloves, despite the weather, though she has conceded to a heavy jack, long pants, and close toed shoes. Her hair is piled on top of her head and hidden under her hood in an attempt to delay the seasonal onslaught of germs she can already feel breeding in her throat, and a scarf hangs from her shoulders, loosened and discarded in favor of nicotine. Her cheeks are pale, and the tip of her nose is red, chapped from constant blowing and sniffling. E.V.E. taps the end of her cigarette on the side of a glass ashtray, skillfully balanced on the edge of a city trashcan, and snubs the life out of it after an additional pull.

She dumps the ashtray in the can and taps the side twice, just to make sure all of the loose ash falls, then tucks it into her jacket pocket. A figure crosses the street from one sidewalk to the other, but E.V.E. can't tell who it is until they're standing in front of her. Jordan Ming is bundled in at least two jackets, a scarf, and a baseball cap, and he's holding her food in one gloved hand. The only thing E.V.E. can see of his face is his eyes and the dark brown freckle that dots the bridge of his nose.

"Doesn't school start back next week?" she asks, taking the still steaming carton of Chinese food from his hand and shoving a twenty in its place.

Jordan nods and takes the money without question; E.V.E. always tips better when he delivers after eleven.

“Eleventh grade, right?” she asks.

Jordan nods again.

“Make sure you come see me before you almost fail again, yeah? We don’t want a repeat of last year.”

“Sure thing,” he says, teeth chittering together in the cold.

“I mean it, Jordan. Don’t make me call Ma Ming.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says sullenly, and E.V.E. can imagine that he’s scowling behind his scarf.

“Good boy. Go home. I know I was your last order of the night.”

“Night, E.V.E. Make sure the doors are locked when you go back in.”

“I will,” she promises, and watches the boy cross the street again.

E.V.E. silently debates the pros and cons of losing her fingertips if she stays outside for another cigarette, but decides that the Chinese food in her hands should tie her over for the moment. She tucks one hand into her coat pocket, and wraps her fingers around a set of keys before turning around and heading up the flight of stairs to the building behind her.

Up eighteen steps and around a corner is the service/staff entrance to one of the NYC Public Library’s Manhattan branches; E.V.E. has worked at the same branch, on 96th Street, since she finished her Masters. The light above the side door flickers on when she triggers the sensor, and she turns to make sure that the door locks behind her, just as she said she would. Satisfied that she’s as safe as she can be in a dark library, in the middle of the night, alone, she grabs a pile of napkins from the communal kitchen and heads back to continue her work.

***

“Good morning, Baltimore!” Penelope sings as she throws the office door open.

E.V.E. is still sitting at her desk, open container of what used to be vegetarian lo mein sitting on a stack of papers and making the office stink. Her glasses have been set on the top of her head, and the bags under her eyes are more prominent than they have been in weeks. Her NYCPL shirt is wrinkled, and her shoes haven’t been on her feet in hours. Penelope stops her singing and frowns.

“Did you work through the night again?” she asks.

“Yep,” E.V.E says, popping the ‘p’ at the end of the word.

“For Christ’s sake, E. You can’t keep doing this. This makes the third night this month.”

E.V.E. shrugs and goes back to examining the damaged book in her hands. Penelope neatly deposits the folders in her hands on her desk, and stows her purse in one of the many filing cabinets they share between them. Her brown riding boots click together softly as she steps towards E.V.E.’s desk and reaches around to thumb the button on her computer monitor.

“Hey!” E.V.E. protests, pushing Penelope’s hands away from her space.

“Go home, E! Take a shower, do something with your hair, and put on something that isn’t stained! You’re supposed to be at the Javits Convention Center in _three hours!”_

“I’ve got stuff to do,” E.V.E. says, ignoring the other woman.

“Go home, or I’m marching to that server room and demanding that Patrick cut your access to everything but Solitaire.”

E.V.E. narrows her eyes, “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” she says.

The staring contest that ensues is nothing the two haven’t been through before; since she was hired, Penelope has made it her second job to make sure that E.V.E. cares for herself properly, whether E.V.E wants her to or not.

“Let me finish with this book,” E.V.E. says darkly.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” Penelope says.

***

E.V.E stomps out the door without so much as a goodbye in Penelope’s direction. The stacks are already starting to fill with people, little old ladies searching out the books that have made it to the New York Times’ Bestseller List or Oprah’s Book Club, parents looking to raise their children with someone else’s rules, teens looking for one last read before school starts back. She ignores most of them on her way out the door, and tries to avoid making eye contact with everyone but Jerod, the night security guard from a bank down the street.

“Penelope throw you out again?” he asks.

“She has something against night owls, I guess,” E.V.E. says, stopping by Jerod and fingering a book on the shelf in front of him. “Try this one. You’ll like it.”

“Thanks, E. See you tonight?”

“Maybe. I’m supposed to be sitting in on a panel at the convention center in a few hours, but I’ll probably be back before closing.”

She takes the eighteen steps down to street level with the appropriate amount of caution, hand wrapped firmly around the railing just in case she slips. The sidewalks are much more crowded than the last time she was outside, and the glare from the sun forces her to dig her sunglasses out of her pocket. Properly shaded and bundled in her scarf and jacket, E.V.E. decides to take the long way home and pick up breakfast on the way.

Rivearo’s is two blocks from the library, and only half a block out of her way. This early in the morning, the line is substantial, but not yet out the door. E.V.E. shoulders the door open and holds it for an exiting couple, then joins the queue in front of the counter. Even in the face of heavy traffic, the boy at the counter keeps the line moving at a steady pace. People don’t seem to mind waiting for their food if they have a hot cup of coffee in their hands. E.V.E. places her order, has a sealed cup of coffee shoved in her hands and is asked to wait at a table or booth.

The dining section of the corner diner isn’t very large, sporting only five booths and three tables. Several people are sitting together, though none of them seem to have had company in mind, making awkward small talk and springing up when their name is called at the order window. The walls are painted a clean white and all of the booths, tables and chairs are black. Neatly framed movie posters hang from the walls, and, in certain cases, are joined by autographed photos. E.V.E. spends her wait staring at an original print poster for _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_.

“I’ve got an Eve!” a man behind the counter calls out, holding several to-go bags. “Sebastian, Kate, and Silvia.”

The man behind the counter hands off two bags to Kate and Silvia respectively, but doesn’t try to give E.V.E. or the man Sebastian a bag.

“Mix up in the kitchen, guys,” he says. “Witch one of you had an extra egg?”

E.V.E. raises her hand and the man behind the counter hands her a bag, hands Sebastian a bag, and wishes them a good day. Sebastian turns at the same time E.V.E. does, and holds the door open for her when they reach it.

“Thanks,” she says out of habit, because if she came out of her childhood with one thing it was a decent set of manners.

“No problem,” he says, and they both turn in the same direction to leave.

E.V.E. hesitates, then regains her footing and tells herself that it doesn’t matter if they go in the same direction; they’ll lose each other in the work traffic soon enough. She sips at the coffee in her cup and shoulders through the foot traffic that always pounds along the sidewalk at this time of the morning, losing herself in the familiar rhythm of walking home.

A short train ride and another ten minutes walking see E.V.E. arriving at her Bronx apartment. She chose the sixth floor walkup when she realized that two of the other three apartments were uninhabitable due to a plumbing problem that had cropped up a year before she moved in. Her door is the second on the right, and her only floor mate is on the other end of the building. She keys the door open, steps through the threshold, and starts searching for a napkin to use while she eats her breakfast over the sink; if she’s late to the panel, her boss (and Penelope) will never let her live it down.

She washes the bagel with extra egg and hot sauce down with a bottle of water while she strips off her clothing, dropping it as she moves through her apartment and stepping over scattered cat toys; she doesn’t bother to find her overly skittish Egyptian Mau, Chère. She turns the water in the shower to just short of scalding, and plugs in her ancient clothes iron to start heating while she bathes. She washes her hair, scrubbing through brunette and amber colored waves with a vigor that probably isn’t healthy, and shaves around her ankles as a precaution; E.V.E. doesn’t wear anything other than long pants, even in the peak of summer. She washes her face and runs a sudsy loofa over her body before jumping out and toweling off as quickly as possible.

E.V.E. wraps her hair in a towel and pulls on a fresh pair of underwear before digging through all the clean laundry she’s yet to hang for her favorite white button down. Finding it, and scoring her second favorite cardigan (navy blue and emerald green striped) all in one go, she throws them both over the ironing board and goes to find her glasses and blow dryer. Her glasses are on the edge of the bathroom sink, where she left them, but she doesn’t slide them back up her nose until her hair is mostly dry; it wouldn’t do to catch something else just because she’d gone out with a wet head. There isn’t a makeup in the world that is strong enough to disguise the bags under her eyes, so she forgoes looking through her nearly-bare stock of cosmetics and picks up the iron.

Once both her button down and her sweater are creased within inches of their lives, and she’s tucked the edges in and rolled the sleeves back so the fabric doesn’t rub her wrists, E.V.E. has just enough time to put on pants, boots, and her jacket again before rushing out the door. She pulls the door closed and doesn’t bother to lock it, and barley stops herself from sprinting down the hall to the stairs. She takes the steps as quickly as she can, slowed by a faulty knee that was crushed in a car accident when she was in college, and near-rushes back to the subway platform closest her building.

It’s a forty-five minute ride from north Bronx to the Jacob K. Javits Convention Center on a good day, and despite the way things have gone so far, it turns out to be a great day. The train car behind the conductor has half as many people as it usually does, but E.V.E. still doesn’t trust the cleanliness of other people enough to sit down. She grips a rail above her head, and dares to take a peek at her phone for the first time in hours. She has seven text messages from Penelope asking for various bits of information (Did she remember to wash her hair? Did he wear something nice? Has she left for the convention center yet?), and two texts from her boss, Dr. Cross, inquiring where she left the Chinese takeout menu, and wishing her good luck. She answers all of Penelope’s texts in one of her own, and shoves her phone back in her pocket. The train slows to a stop shortly after and E.V.E. can disembark onto the platform, and back up to street level.

The convention center is conveniently placed between two subway stops, and crowds of people are streaming towards the building for the first of four days’ worth of comic book, movie, TV, and other various types of madness awaiting them at New York City Comic Con. E.V.E. dodges a group of young women dressed as the characters from Sailor Moon, and nearly gets bowled over by a Chewbacca look-alike. Once she actually manages to get somewhere near the registration area, bobbing and weaving through men and women of all ages in various stages of dress, she has to stop and ask someone with a STAFF shirt where she needed to register for her panel. The man directs her to a, thankfully, shorter line, and E.V.E. thinks she might just have a moment to catch her breath.

“Name?” the woman behind the folding table asks; her name tag reads Kaitlyn.

“It should be under E.V.E,” she says.

“And which panel are you registering for?” the other woman asks, eyebrow raised.

_“From Yesterday to Tomorrow: Arguing Diversity through Gender, Skin Color, and Culture.”_

“There you are,” Kaitlyn says, looking surprised. “Here’s your wristband, and your panel badge. _From Yesterday to Tomorrow_ is in Panel Room 6; it’s highlighted on your map. Seating will start at eleven-fifteen, please be there by eleven. Have a nice day.”

E.V.E. moves out of line with the distinct impression that Kaitlyn didn’t care for how she was registered. She glances down at her brown leather watch as she steps away from the table; she has thirty minutes before she has to be in the panel room, and she fully intends on smoking at least two cigarettes within that timeframe. Heading back the way she came, E.V.E. finds the elevator. She takes the horrible metal box to the second floor, where the highlighted panel room on her map is, and takes a quick jaunt towards the small balcony she noticed on her way in. No one is on the panel floor yet, so she digs the box and her lighter out of her pockets and steps back out into the frigid January air.

The balcony is maybe six feet long and several feet across, sporting two wrought iron tables and matching chairs. E.V.E. plops down in one of the chairs and lights her first cigarette, hiding the flame from her lighter with her hand. The nicotine that first sits on her tongue is the best thing she’s tasted since the last cigarette she had; she slides down in the cold chair and tries to enjoy it the best she can. E.V.E. is on the last few puffs, lazily forming rings with the smoke she blows from her mouth, when the balcony door cracks open.

“Do you mind?” a quiet voice asks.

E.V.E. shakes her head, not bothering to look away from what little of the New York skyline she can see. She hears the legs of a chair at the other table scrape against the concrete as the other person pulls it out and takes a seat themselves. A little bit of rustling, and the familiar click of a lighter tell her that her company is out in the freezing weather for the same reason. They both remain silent, E.V.E. starting on her second cigarette and ignoring the other person.

More quickly than she wants it to, the second cigarette comes to an end, and E.V.E. neatly tucks the butt in a conveniently places ash tray. She sighs, runs her hand through her hair, pushing it away from her face, and sets her feet firmly on the ground. She makes sure her cigarettes and lighter are tucked away in her pockets, and finally looks up to see who had come to share her balcony.

Bright blue eyes cut into her grey ones, and if she hadn’t made awkward eye contact with him when he held the door for her this morning, she never would have recognized him as the man from the diner. He has floppy, chocolate brown hair pushed to one side, and a gorgeous jaw. He’s wrapped in his own layers, at least a leather jacket, sweater, and scarf, and he is holding his own cigarette between two long, slim fingers. He lifts one of those broad hands, both set on the table in front of him and gloveless, and points at her.

“You’re the lady who had an extra egg on her sandwich this morning.”

E.V.E. nods hesitantly, unsure of why this man is again in her life; after their random, once-in-a-lifetime meeting in a city of 8.3 million people, they never should have seen each other again. Before she can think of an intelligent counter comment, a young man in a VOLUNTEER t-shirt sticks his head out of the balcony door and asks,

“Ms. Eve?”

She nods.

“We need you in the panel room.”

She nods again and climbs to her feet. The man from the diner salutes her as she passes by.

***

“I don’t think that’s the problem at all,” E.V.E. says as Sebastian slips into the back of the panel room. He drops down into the back row and stuffs both hands into his pockets. “The problem is that we treat this subculture like a disease, like if we just nod our heads and smile everything that makes us uncomfortable will be swept under the rug. Introducing children, teens, and adults to new ideas and telling them that they’re real and that they need to be treated as such is the first step to wiping out inequality, in every form it comes in. Who cares if mommy and daddy have different skin colors, or if you have two mothers or two fathers so long as they love and nurture you? Raising our children with the same rules we were raised with is just going to extend this battle for what should and shouldn’t be socially acceptable.”

Another woman at the table, Sebastian is too far away to read the name tag on the table in front of her, leans toward her microphone and says, “This country was founded by good, Christian people who wanted – .”

“This country was founded by Puritans seeking religious freedom from Christian persecutors in Europe in an attempt to create a country where every man, woman, and child could live as they saw fit to live, regardless of skin color, gender, sexual orientation, or ancestral culture,” E.V.E. interrupts firmly.

Several people in the crowd, which seems to have grown the more heated the argument became, give applause.

“I’m going to have to step in here, ladies,” the moderator says. “We’ve gotten a little off course, and we still have one more topic to discuss before the session is over.”

Both women nod and sit back in their seats, but even from the back of the room Sebastian can see how mad E.V.E. is; he wonders how long they’ve been arguing if the moderator had to get involved.

“Hey,” someone whispers, and Sebastian jumps when Chris drops a heavy hand onto his shoulder. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“Came for a smoke,” Sebastian says. “Got distracted.”

“Anything interesting?” the larger man asks, sinking into the chair next to him.

“It’s like a fucking cat fight,” the brunette grins. “Eve and the second one from the right end are about to start clawing each other’s eyes out.”

“Eve?” Chris asks.

“The one in the glasses.”

“Know her?”

“I’ve run into her a couple times.”

“Quiet in the audience, please,” the moderator says, and both Sebastian and Chris duck down in their seats. “The next topic up for discussion is: On June 5th, 2014 an article written by Ruth Graham was published on slate.com under the title _Against YA: You Should be Embarrassed that What You’re Reading was Written for Children_. Do you agree, or disagree?”

***

She doesn’t wait around to make small talk with the other panelees, and she has no interest whatsoever in continuing her argument with the woman from the opposite end of the table, as adrenaline pumping, for all the wrong reasons, as the near-fight had been. She collects her coat, and flees the room. E.V.E. stumbles back out onto the balcony as soon as the panel has been dismissed.

She fumbles through her jacket pocket, searching for her pack of cigarettes and hoping that the damnable things will keep her calm enough to avoid the anxiety attack she can feel tickling the back of her brain. She finally manages to slip a stick between her lips, hands shaking violently, and struggles to hold her lighter tight enough to light it. It tumbles through her fingers once, twice, and drops over the edge of the balcony railing. She leans over the side, and watches it hit the ground. Overly exhausted, and ready to give up on the day, E.V.E. rests her elbows on the rail and drops her head into her hands.

“You need a light?”

She turns, pushing all of her hair out of her face, and finally takes notice of the man sitting on the balcony. It is, again, the same man from the diner, sitting at one of the wrought iron tables with a cigarette in his hand. He’s still wearing the same leather jacket, and the same cream colored sweater, and the same blue scarf; his hand is out stretched towards her, offering her a lighter. E.V.E. takes it, hands still trembling, and takes a purposeful step away from the side of the balcony. It still takes her longer that it should to light a cigarette, but she does manage this time, and the first taste of nicotine on her tongue forces some of the oncoming panic to rush out of her.

“Are you okay?” the man asks, and E.V.E. nods without looking at him.

She holds out his lighter to him, hands still shaky, and he takes it slowly. Holding the cigarette on one side of her mouth, and puffing smoke out the other, E.V.E. snatches a hair tie off of her wrist and twists her hair up into a hasty bun. Satisfied that the strands are no longer touching her face, the woman leans back against the rail and sighs.

“If it makes you feel better,” the man says, “I agree with your argument.”

“You were watching?” E.V.E. asks quietly, eyes flicking up in surprise.

“I caught the end.”

“Then how can you be sure you agree with the whole argument?”

“I think I got the idea,” he grins. “You’re Eve, right?”

“Sure,” she agrees, and doesn’t bother to correct him; that _is_ the name on her badge.

“I’m Sebastian.”

“I remember,” she says. “Sort of.”

“I only get a ‘sort of’?” he asks, but the grin doesn’t leave his face.

“Did you remember my name?” E.V.E. asks, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray and rooting around for another one; Sebastian manages to offer her his lighter again in the same moment she realizes she no longer has one.

“Not until that kid came looking for you,” he admits.

“Well, then,” she says, and lights another cigarette.

“So, can I assume stage fright?” he asks; E.V.E. doesn’t know whether to commend him on such a smooth transition into small talk, or tell him to buzz off.

“Extreme social anxiety,” she says shortly, not quite ready to jump head first into rude.

“I never would have guessed,” Sebastian says honestly. “You handle it well.”

“Well enough,” she shrugs. “My boss knows I fucking hate doing this shit.”

“Your boss?” he says incredulity. “I want your job, if this is what you do.”

“I’m a librarian,” E.V.E. says absently, flicking ash from the end of her cigarette.

“Really?” Sebastian asks. “So you don’t just sit around and read all day?”

“That is such an insult to my profession. I wish I just had time to sit around and read.”

“I’m sorry? I don’t really have an idea of what librarians – .”

The balcony door opens and a large blonde man leans out, shivering because he’s only wearing a t-shirt.

“Hi,” he says, “sorry to interrupt, but will you come on?”

E.V.E. assumes he must be talking to Sebastian.

“Anthony and Scarlett are going to kill us if we’re late.”

“They’re going to kill you, you mean,” Sebastian laughs. “Since you’re supposed to be Sebastian-sitting.”

“Yes,” the other man sighs. “I am your keeper for the day; I drew the short straw. Now come on.” Then, in E.V.E.’s direction, “Nice to meet you.”

“Okay,” she says.

“Here,” Sebastian says, standing and offering her his lighter again; E.V.E. takes it without thinking, “in case you want another.”

“What? No. Take it back.”

“Keep it,” he grins. “See you later, Eve.”

***

“So how was the panel?” Penelope asks, taking a seat at her desk.

“You have asked me that nineteen times in the last four days, Penelope,” E.V.E. says bluntly. “It was fucking dandy.”

“I keep asking because you won’t tell me how it went.”

“It was _fucking dandy_.”

“See,” Penelope says, turning her computer monitor so that E.V.E. can see it, “this YouTube video has another story.”

E.V.E.’s head whips around and Penelope presses play. Tiny versions of the panel table, its participants, and some of the crowd play on the screen, the miniature version of E.V.E. ripping another women a new one over the logistics of fighting for all-over equal rights and how it was the responsibility of everyone on the planet to treat human beings like human beings. Real-life E.V.E. drops her head onto her desk with a thump, and decides to spend the rest of her life as a recluse that works from home.

“What’s the view count?” she asks hesitantly.

“Twenty-five thousand and climbing.”

“It’s been four fucking days!” E.V.E. shouts, slamming her fists onto the desk top.

“The library is open,” Penelope scolds.

“Has Cross seen it?” E.V.E. asks.

“I don’t know. If he heard about it, it wasn’t from me.”

“Great,” the brunette grouses. “I guess I better fucking tell him before someone else has the chance to run their fat mouth.”

She stands from her desk to search for her shoes, abandoned as soon as she had come in earlier that morning. She slips her flats back on, checks the front of her NYCPL sweatshirt, and, finding a stain, decides to take it off. Underneath is her favorite t-shirt, a well-loved, but unholey, men’s shirt with the cover of Matt Fraction’s _Hawkeye_ ’s first issue on it. It isn’t the most appropriate attire for the first day of the week, but normally E.V.E. spends the whole day in her office, and is able to go unnoticed by both the public and her boss.

Penelope bends over to dig through a file cabinet, and comes back with one of her emergency cardigans (because God-forbid Penelope have a stain on her sweater and look anything less than perfect). She hands it to E.V.E., who slips it on without protest, and even has the last minute thought to add her “Graphic Novels are the Way to Go!” button next to the name tag she’s supposed to wear, but never does.

“That’s as good as it’s going to get, E,” Penelope says. “We’ll stop by Rivearo’s later for feel-better food.”

“You hate Rivearo’s,” E.V.E. says glumly, mood most likely shot for the rest of the day, if not week or month.

“Yeah, but you don’t. Go get ‘em, tiger.”

“Don’t fucking call me tiger,” she says, stomping out of her office.

The library branch director’s office is on the other side of the building, which is a good thing for E.V.E., because he doesn’t necessarily approve of E.V.E.’s mouth, and she slips up often. Dr. Cross had been the one to hire her, fresh from college and with a hot-off-the-printer degree in her hands, so she doesn’t doubt that he doubts that she can do her job, but E.V.E. isn’t sure he knew what he was getting into with her as a person. Professionally, E.V.E. was the best in Manhattan, if not the entire New York City Public Library system, but she had never had the ambition, nor the people skills really, to move up. Personally, E.V.E. knew she was an acquired taste that wasn’t even on most people’s menus, and that she could use that aspect of herself to keep other people away. Dr. Cross had been the one person to see where E.V.E. felt she fit best: with the teens, helping them navigate their lives just like she was still navigating hers.

She knocks on Dr. Cross’s door, ready to get the impending scolding over with, and he calls for her to enter, just like he always does. His office is rich and warm, full of degrees on the walls and literary knick-knacks on the shelves.

“Hello, E,” he says kindly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hi, Dr. Cross,” she says, voice strained and tense.

“Are you alright?”

“Have you seen the video of the panel I contributed to last week?” she asks, jumping straight into the volcano she knew this actually was.

“I was unaware that there was video being taken,” he says. “Are the convention hosts going to provide us a copy?”

“No,” E.V.E. says. “It wasn’t the convention hosts who filmed it; it was one of the people attending.”

“And there is a problem with it?” he asks, realizing the video as the source of E.V.E.’s distress.

“It’s not the most polite conversation and you can clearly read my name plate associating me with the library and it may or may not be on YouTube.”

“I see,” he says slowly. “And are you particularly vulgar in this video?”

“No.”

“Are you, in any way, bad mouthing the library, or are you just expressing your personal opinions as the convention hosts asked you to do?”

“Personal opinion.”

“Then, should a problem in the eye of the public come forth, we will deal with it promptly.”

The air in the office seems to pause.

“That’s it?” E.V.E. asks in disbelief.

“I don’t know what you expected from this conversation, E, but I’m not going to scold you for acting as I and the convention hosts asked you to. If someone untoward should get a hold of the video, we, as a library, will deal with the outcome. It’s as simple as that.”

“I just –.”

“I would never ask you, or anyone else, to speak out against their personal beliefs, E. And I’d be a fool to even try otherwise with you. You, knowing you as I do, argued with a solid opinion, facts, and prior knowledge of whatever subject fell out of hand before you opened your mouth. You may think otherwise, but until you are able to prove a winning statement, you do manage to hold your tongue.”

“But –.”

“Go back to your office,” Dr. Cross says. “Or, better yet, go home and get some rest.”

***

“I don’t want to go home,” E.V.E. says as she and Penelope shuffle through the early afternoon traffic in the direction of Rivearo’s; correction: E.V.E. shuffles, and Penelope walks like a normal, if a little privileged, human being. “I want to finish the paperwork on my desk.”

“You hate paperwork,” Penelope says agreeably.

“I hate being sent home more.”

“It’ll be okay. You can go home and catch up on your Netflix que. You can read a book. You can actually get some sleep.”

“I don’t sleep,” E.V.E. grumbles, pushing open the door to Rivearo’s.

“I noticed.”

“Good afternoon, E,” the man behind the counter says.

“Hey, Mark,” E.V.E. says.

“Usual?” he asks.

“Please.”

“And for you?” he asks in Penelope’s direction.

When Penelope stumbles for an answer, E.V.E. says, “Same as me, just mild and without the extra sauce.”

“Sure thing.”

“Do you know everyone in this town?” Penelope asks as E.V.E. pays.

“Mark’s youngest is in the Read-to-Me program at the library. She’s a cute kid.”

“You and kids,” Penelope says sweetly as Mark shuffles them away from the counter with two cups of rather fantastic hot chocolate. “When are you going to have your own?”

“When I grow eight extra arms and am able to make money just by being alive,” E.V.E. says sarcastically.

Penelope makes a noise in agreement, and offers to go get their food when Mark calls their name. E.V.E. sips her hot chocolate until her hands start to regain feeling and tingle. Penelope sets a tray down between them, along with a pile of napkins and another round of drinks. E.V.E. bites into her sandwich and tries to ignore Penelope attempting to eat with any kind of dignity; she knows from experience that Rivearo’s never leaves you with any.

“It’s a sandwich, Penelope,” she says. “Eat it like one.”

“Oh my,” the blonde murmurs, and wipes what little food that made it to her face away. “I think the father of my children just walked in.”

“What?” E.V.E. says bluntly, ready to turn and see if her officemate had indeed lost her mind.

“Don’t look!” Penelope demands quietly. “You’ll make it obvious that I’m staring.”

“It’s already obvious,” E.V.E. says indignantly.

“Oh, E, he’s gorgeous. All finely cut lines, and muscle under that sweater, and mother of sweet baby Jesus those blue eyes are – shit, E, he’s coming this way!”

E.V.E. tries to wipe her face and contain her amusement at Penelope’s distress at the same time, which proves to be difficult.

“It’s not funny,” Penelope hisses.

“It is though,” E.V.E. says just as she catches view of a black leather jacket in her peripheral.

She looks up to see Sebastian. He’s wearing the same jacket and scarf, but today his sweater is plum colored.

“This is getting really fucking weird,” E.V.E. says to him, all amusement gone.

“E!” Penelope scolds, and Sebastian laughs.

“It’s nice to see you too, Eve,” he says, and Penelope opens her mouth to correct him, but E.V.E. kicks her under the table.

“Sebastian,” she says after Penelope nearly scalds her with her eyes, “this is my coworker, Penelope. Penelope, this is Sebastian.”

“Are you a librarian, too?” he asks Penelope, taking a seat at the table next to theirs.

“I’m working on it,” Penelope says primly, folding her napkin across her lap.

“That’s neat,” he says. “Eve, do you –”

“Sebastian!” Mark calls from the counter.

“That’s me.”

“You’re welcome to eat with us,” Penelope says, and E.V.E. kicks her again.

“Sorry, ladies. I’ve got an appointment to make. Maybe next time. I’ll see you later, Eve.”

E.V.E. doesn’t raise her hand in farewell.

***

“You did not tell me you had a friend like that,” Penelope says as they leave Rivearo’s in the direction of E.V.E.’s apartment. “You should have mentioned him.”

“I don’t know him,” the brunette says. “He held the door for me the other day at Rivearo’s, and I ran back into him at the convention. That’s it.”

“Then how did he know your name?” Penelope says, raising both her eye brows.

“I was wearing a name tag.”

“MhhHmmm.”

“Oh, fuck off,” E.V.E. says, and stomps away.

“No! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!” Penelope laughs, catching E.V.E.’s arm and tugging her back. “I won’t talk about it anymore.”

“People make me uncomfortable,” E.V.E. says sullenly.

“I know,” Penelope says looping their arms together.

“You make me uncomfortable.”

“I love you, too.”

E.V.E. and Penelope spend the rest of the night lying on the brunette’s couch, watching Disney movies on the screen of Penelope’s laptop. They sit side by side, sharing a blanket, and eventually E.V.E drifts off, the sounds of _Lilo and Stitch_ and Chère’s purring mixing into white noise.

***

Penelope is sitting at the desk in the corner of the young adult section of the library, trying to correct the files of several miscataloged books, and keeping an eye on several younger teens that rolled in about half an hour ago. The cataloguing could be going better, but the blonde is distracted this morning, by both the teenagers, who make the occasional worrying noise, and by the toddler story time going on around the corner. Half way through sorting out several records, Penelope decides to give in for the moment and walk the shelves.

She stands from her chair and heads in the direction of the teens, who have become suspiciously quiet. She takes the path around the wall first, looking for where they might be lurking, and finds the three of them peering quietly through the books and into another isle.

“What are you three doing?” she asks quietly.

They whip around, guilty expressions stamped across their faces, and one of them has the gall to try and shush her. She raises her eye brows at them, the picture of the stereotypical librarian, and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Excuse me?”

“Uh, sorry,” one of them whispers.

“And what, exactly, are you three up to?”

“Looking for a book?” the one on the left says.

“Is that a statement, or a question?”

“Uh.”

“That’s what I thought. First of all, this is a library, not a gossip bar. Find a book and a quiet place to put yourself without bothering anyone, or shoo. Secondly, lying to adults is wrong, so if you’re going to try it any way, see if you can come up with something better than ‘um’.”

“Yes, Ms. Penelope,” the third one says, and they all turn to try and hurry away.

“Teenagers,” Penelope scoffs quietly, straightening the books that had been pushed awry. She continues down the same isle, stretching her legs as much as possible, rounds the corner, and nearly bowls someone over in the process. She catches the woman by the elbows and makes sure she’s steady before letting go.

“I am so sorry,” she says. “I didn’t even see you.”

“It’s okay,” woman laughs, waving away Penelope’s apology.

“Are you sure? Did I hurt you?”

“I’m sure,” she says.

“Do you need help finding a book?” Penelope asks, the question falling from her lips after months of repetition.

“I do, actually,” she says. “I was recommended the newest John Green book, and I can’t find it on the shelf.”

“The Fault in Our Stars,” Penelope comments. “We have six copies at this location and they’re all checked out. I can call around and see if anyone has a copy still in.”

“No, that’s okay,” she says at the same time someone calls out, “Hey, Scar, I found his other books, but not The Fault in Our Stars.”

“This is a library!” Penelope hisses when the other person turns the corner.

Surprised blue eyes blink at her before Sebastian grins. “Penelope, right?”

“Yeah,” she says.

“I’m still Sebastian,” he says offering her his hand to shake.

“I know,” she says.

“I though you said her name was Eve,” the woman says.

“This isn’t Eve, this is Penelope. Penelope, this is my friend Scarlett.”

Penelope smiles at Scarlett, then looks back to Sebastian. “You know her name isn’t Eve, right?”

“What?” Sebastian asks, and Scarlett snorts. “That’s what it said on her name tag!”

“E.V.E. are her initials. It’s how she signs everything.”

“But she never corrected me!”

“She’s contrary like that,” Penelope shrugs.

“So what’s her real name?” Scarlett asks.

“Nope,” Penelope says, shaking her head. “You’ll have to ask her when she comes back next week. If she didn’t tell you, I’m not going to.”

“Your next trip to Rivearo’s is on me,” he promises, eyes narrowing.

“I don’t actually like Rivearo’s,” Penelope says, “but nice try.”

***

E.V.E. spends three days cooped up in her apartment, living off of frozen meals and instant macaroni and cheese and catching up on her neglected bookshelf, before she decides that she has to have real food. She piles her hair on top of her head, throws on a sweater over her already numerous layers, and shoves her feet into a pair of well insulated wellies; her jacket barely fits over her mass of shirts and sweaters and she doesn’t bother to try and zip the front.

Rivearo’s is a short train ride and a five minute walk from her apartment, and since she’s headed in the same direction, she decides to drop off a handful of library books she took out before her vacation; she doesn’t remember when they’re due, but they’ve been read and need to be returned. She gathers them all in a bag, makes sure she has her metro card and a collection of cash, and sets out.

The train ride is bearable, it being that time of day that everyone has already arrived at work, but hasn’t left for lunch yet. The snow on the sidewalks has already been trampled down by the morning crowd, and E.V.E. thanks her lucky stars that she didn’t decide she wanted breakfast too early. Mark is behind the counter, and greets her by placing her special mix of hot chocolate in her hands, and declaring that her usual would be out shortly. For the first time in a long while, E.V.E. takes a seat in the back corner booth, and means to enjoy her meal alone, well, in the company of a good book. Mark brings her usual sandwich to her table, as well as a refill for her hot chocolate, and E.V.E. dives right into the pages of _Code Name Verity_.

***

Sebastian has a lot on his mind most days. Whether he’s worried about the next upcoming audition, or where he’s got to be over the next two weeks, or if he even has time to take a breath, he’s always managed to work it out, but Eve (that’s not really her name) the librarian for the New York Public Library System has had him distracted. He’s used to getting second and third and fourth looks from girls, _women_ , and men, and he tries to enjoy them, he does, but there’s only so much of a conversation he can have with a person before it turns into the same scripted scene: what’s it like working for Marvel? Is he going to be in any other movies? What’s going to happen next? and it’s honestly exhausting.

Eve, she hasn’t looked at him twice, other than to remark on how strange it is that they keep running into each other, and it’s refreshing. She doesn’t seem to recognize him, and he chastises himself when he has that thought; how used to being recognized is he getting that it’s almost a disappointment when it doesn’t happen? But it’s nice to have a chance at a normal encounter. Sebastian dodges around an opening door at almost too late of a moment, and ducks inside, head still in the clouds as he orders at the counter.

“But I think it’s a good book, you should definitely try it.”

“Yeah. Sounds nice.”

Sebastian turns his head just enough that he can see notEve jammed into a booth with an empty plate pushed to the side and a half-finished book in front of her. Across from her is a man maybe a bit taller than she is, broad in the shoulder, with combed back hair and a wide smile. NotEve looks beyond uncomfortable, and Sebastian has to make a snap decision when his name is called at the window. He grabs his go bag, makes sure that he won’t spill his coffee if he stumbles, and slides into the seat next to notEve.

“Hey, babe, sorry I’m late.”

“H – hi,” notEve mumbles, eyes flicking back and forth between Sebastian and the other man in the booth. Sebastian smiles at him and says, “Thanks for keeping E company.”

“Who are you?” the man asks bluntly.

“I’m Sebastian. You are?”

“Chuck,” the other man spits.

“We need to go or we’re going to be late,” notEve says quietly, anxiously, pushing against Sebastian’s knee with her own.

“Yeah, you got it,” Sebastian says, hopping to his feet and helping notEve gather her book and coffee. He makes sure she has a hand on everything before snagging his bag from the table and nodding at Chuck.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, and urges notEve out the door with a hand on her back.

Back out on the street, Sebastian can feel notEve trembling through what must be a bajillion layers, but continues to guide her down the street and around the corner until Rivearo’s is no longer in sight. NotEve drops her bag and starts searching her pockets as soon as they pause on the sidewalk. Sebastian watches her produce an inhaler, take two puffs, and dive back in for her cigarettes and his silver lighter. She lights up with shaking hands and he decides to let her finish that one before he talks.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

NotEve nods quickly, trying to light another cigarette and failing. Sebastian takes the lighter from her gently and clicks the flame to life. She drags the end of her cigarette through the fire and inhales deeply. Slowly her breathing starts to settle and Sebastian doesn’t feel like she’s going to pass out.

“I didn’t mean to just jump in, but you looked kinda…”

“N – no, thank you. He’s a handful.”

She says it quietly, almost darkly, but the anxiety in her voice catches his attention.

“Where are you headed?” he asks.

“The library,” she says around the cigarette between her lips.

“Can I walk you?”

His food will get cold, but he can’t find the room to care.

She looks up at him though her eyelashes, shaking hand still hovering around her mouth.

“I d – don’t want to…” _inconvenience you_.

“You’re not,” he says.

“Okay,” she says just as quietly as before.

***

Penelope meets them at the door. She takes both of E.V.E.’s hands and moves her arms out of the way, completing a visual comb over before hugging her best friend. E.V.E. grumbles, but doesn’t actually put up a protest, just shoves her library book into Penelope’s arms when the blonde pulls away. The other woman huffs, drops them in the overnight drop box for later, and turns to usher E.V.E. further into the library. When Sebastian lingers by the door, she turns back to look at him and crook her finger.

“You, too, Sebastian. We’re going to need a statement.”

“A s – statement!” E.V.E. complains. “Penelope, tell me you didn’t call the cops.”

“Of course not,” the blonde says. “Dr. Cross did.”

Penelope leads them both into the communal staff kitchen where Dr. Cross and two policemen are already waiting. Dr. Cross stands to perform his own visual inspection, and Sebastian places himself in the corner out of the way. E.V.E. greets both officers by their first names, digs around in her pockets again, and produces her pack of cigarettes. She props the staff entrance open with her foot and one of the policemen protests.

“If I am going to stand here and be made to relive this goddamn nightmare, and in front of a goddamn fucking stranger, I am going to do it with a fucking cigarette in my hand.”

It’s the most confident and forceful thing Sebastian has ever heard her say. He steps out of the corner, drawing the eyes of the room, pulls the door open wider with his foot and joins E.V.E. in the doorway with his own cigarette; he offers her is lighter first. Once they’ve both settled, the police start with their questions, directing them first at E.V.E., then at Sebastian.

“You left your apartment, and headed for Rivearo’s. Did it look like anyone was following you?”

“It’s been three goddamn years,” E.V.E. says. “I didn’t think I still had to watch over my shoulder.”

“And there have been no phone calls?”

“No phone calls, no letters, no flowers or presents, no messages left for me at the front desk.”

“Are your sure it was the same guy?”

“It’s not like his face isn’t seared into the back of my eyelids. He got his hair cut, lost some weight, but yeah.”

“I’m really fucking sorry about this,” E.V.E. says to Sebastian when Dr. Cross distracts the policemen with a few questions of his own.

“What the fuck for?” he asks. “This guy stalked you, yeah?”

E.V.E. nods once.

“Then how the hell is this your fault? People don’t usually _invite_ crazies into their lives.”

“It’s still a really fucking awful thing to drag you into.”

“Too late,” Sebastian says. “Tell you what, I’ll let you buy me dinner to make up for it.”

NotEve glares at him from behind her glasses.

“Or,” he says, “you could tell me your real name.”

She sighs, and bends over to squish the butt of her cigarette against the bottom of her shoe.

“It’s Eloise,” she says quietly, “but only my mother calls me that.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not claiming anything with this story. I don't know if Sebastian Stan smokes, or if he spends his free time with ScarJo. This is a work of pure fiction and fantasy.


End file.
